


That which hurts (and is desired)

by onereader



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Auror Draco Malfoy, Auror Harry Potter, Aurors, Biting, Blood, Coming Untouched, Cursed Draco Malfoy, Deepthroating, Dom Draco Malfoy, Don’t copy to another site, Dry Humping, Face-Fucking, Feelings, Flashbacks, Friends to Lovers, Frottage, Getting Together, H/D Erised 2019, Happy Ending, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Hurt Draco Malfoy, Kissing, Light Angst, Love Confessions, M/M, Magical Theory, Magically Powerful Harry Potter, Oral Sex, POV Harry Potter, Post-Hogwarts, Post-Second War with Voldemort, Praise Kink, Redeemed Draco Malfoy, Riding, Rimming, Snarky Draco Malfoy, Sub Harry Potter, Switching, Topping from the Bottom, Under-negotiated Kink, Undressing, Voyeurism, ball slapping, dom/sub dynamics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-06
Updated: 2019-12-06
Packaged: 2021-02-13 08:30:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 19,890
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21491380
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/onereader/pseuds/onereader
Summary: Draco was lying still, and pale, on a bed in a private room in St Mungo’s. The sheets were white, clean, enchanted against stains, vanishing the blood that kept spilling out of him. He hadn’t moved in two days. Not a twitch of his elegant fingers. Not a blink of his fierce eyes. Harry couldn’t even see the faint flutter of his pulse in his throat from where he stood at the foot of the bed, helpless, impotent, furious.There is nothing Harry wouldn’t do for the people he cares about. As it turns out, that might bring him everything he’s ever wanted.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Comments: 187
Kudos: 1400
Collections: H/D Erised 2019





	That which hurts (and is desired)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [keyflight790](https://archiveofourown.org/users/keyflight790/gifts).

> Keyflight790 - I hope you enjoy this, I love your presence within the fandom and did my best to include themes and scenes I thought you’d enjoy! This story really took hold of me and I loved writing it, I hope it brings you as much pleasure to read! ❤️
> 
> If readers are concerned about the under negotiated kink or the blood content, please see authors notes at the end for details.
> 
> I couldn't have done this without the incredible support of my betas - endless love and appreciation ❤️

Draco was lying still, and pale, on a bed in a private room in St Mungo’s. The sheets were white, clean, enchanted against stains, vanishing the blood that kept spilling out of him. He hadn’t moved in two days. Not a twitch of his elegant fingers. Not a blink of his fierce eyes. Harry couldn’t even see the faint flutter of his pulse in his throat from where he stood at the foot of the bed, helpless, impotent, furious.

* * *

It had started a fortnight ago in the conference room of the Auror department.

Head Auror Robards had summoned fully half of the department together for a debrief after their sting at the weekend. Analysis, pre-Wizengamot legal prep, and congratulations on a clean sweep—no injuries sustained to any members of the team—every member of the gang arrested in one fell swoop. It was a textbook success from start to finish, the atmosphere in the room was jubilant. This gang was guilty of the worst crimes; cruel, violent, morally repugnant on every level. The DMLE had been working on this case for months, the raid was the climax of everyone’s toil. And, finally, they were all going to go down.

Malfoy had been sitting across from him at the long conference table, sipping his tea and laughing with his teammates. He was as cocky as ever, proud, boasting about his arrest count, the evidence he had collected while undercover with the gang. He eyed Harry across the table as he compared their performances, his smirk as compelling as it was infuriating. Harry couldn’t help but grin back, smug as he gloated about his own arrest rate for the mission—couldn’t help but respond to Malfoy, like he always had. 

That was when the first nosebleed started. A stark drop of scarlet on fair skin, brighter even than his Auror robes, pearling at the peak of his Cupid’s bow. Malfoy had frowned, dabbed at his nose, smeared the blood across his top lip and stared at his fingers in consternation.

His other hand had come up to rub at the center of his chest. His brows furrowed, confusion edging into distress. He looked up from those bloodstained fingers, right into Harry’s eyes, his gaze winter-grey and and bewildered. His mouth opened, as if to speak, but no sound came out. He blinked once before his eyes rolled back and he lost consciousness. 

Harry hadn’t been the one to catch him as he slumped. But he had been the one to throw every emergency Healing and Stasis Charm in the Auror handbook—and some advanced spells Hermione had taught him—at him with the full force of his magic. Within moments of him fainting, Harry had Malfoy’s body floating safely on a magical stretcher; encased in the pale blue light of a Stasis Charm so substantial it had gravity itself losing touch with the strands of his silver-white hair, the heavy fall of his crimson Auror uniform pooling around him like a living thing. Harry had been the one to sustain and guide those spells at a run, to carry him through the halls of the Ministry, hastily cleared by the rest of Malfoy’s frantic team, until he reached an Apparition point and could take him to St Mungo’s.

Harry had been the one who had roared at the Welcome Witch to summon Head Healer Granger, had told her everything he knew when she appeared moments later. He had followed her, jogging to keep up as she took hold of his charms and swept through the hospital to the emergency rooms, answering every question she shot in his direction as clearly as he could, too caught up in the fear and the shock of the moment to feign surprise at his own, intimate, knowledge of Malfoy.

“Allergic to Fluxweed unless it’s been picked under a new moon.” — “Ambidextrous, casts with his right.” — “He’s not been ill since he had a cold last month.” — “We thought it was just a Stunner.”

He had been the one shoved into the corner when two, three, four more Healers rushed into the room, their wands already drawn, serious expressions on every face. He had watched as Hermione carefully lifted the Stasis Charm to assess Malfoy’s symptoms, Harry’s stomach dropping to the floor when blood started to stream from his nose, bubble up between his barely parted lips, roll across pale cheeks and stain his hair. There was a puddle underneath him, dripping over the side of the bed he lay on in the space of a few minutes: wet, and red, and awful.

Hermione was casting furiously over him, barking orders at her team, her clever eyes scanning every magical response she was getting and the crease between her brows deepening with every passing moment. They banished the blood. And for one perfect moment it was as though Malfoy was simply asleep. But it lasted for only the space of a heartbeat before once again ribbons of claret were pouring across his face.

Harry must have made some kind of sound. Some microscopic part of the scream sitting under the boulder currently crushing his chest must have escaped, and Hermione looked up at him for a second, distracted from her work.

“That’s enough, Harry. Go.” Her words were sharp, straightforward, but he could see the look in her eyes she got when she was protecting him. He was keeping her from focusing on Malfoy. So he went.

He had been the one who stood alone, frozen in the atrium of the hospital for long moments after he had left Malfoy in Hermione’s capable hands, after she spared one last consoling look for her best friend before she turned her laserlike focus onto her patient and Harry slipped quietly out of the room.

* * *

No. It had started during the sting. Midnight on a Saturday. Months of investigation and undercover work, weeks of stakeouts, days of planning. It all culminated in one of the biggest Auror missions Harry had ever worked on. They had descended upon the warehouse in a shady area of London that hosted a gang of wizards involved in everything from illegal potions dealing to trafficking Muggle children. 

Three full Auror teams, the most experienced and skilled in combat magic the department had to offer, had hit the warehouse simultaneously. 

The coven of wizards inside didn’t see them coming. Most of them were hit with _Stupefy_ in the first minute or so. But there were a handful that heard the alarm and had time to react, as vicious and unrestrained as beasts in a trap. Anti-Apparition wards and a heavy perimeter of back-up meant they had nowhere to go, so the wandfight was intense and desperate. Harry hadn’t seen some of the curses thrown that night since the war. _Crucio. Sectumsempra. Confringo._

Harry had slipped into the ebb and flow of battle with ease, had relished it. The heat, the scent of magic on the air, the fierce satisfaction of the parry, the counter-curse, the victory over one awful bastard after another. He didn’t keep count of the wizards he bested. Just rode the adrenaline rush of the fight higher and higher, like a bird of prey riding a thermal updraft, until his blood was singing and his wand-hand felt like fire. 

He and Malfoy had ended up on the top floor of the warehouse, fighting back to back, as dynamic and unstoppable in their cohesion as they had once been in their conflict. Each knew the other’s strengths, weaknesses, tendency to favour one spell over another; protecting open sides, casting seamlessly together. Malfoy did keep count, of _both_ of their respective victories if his gloating comparisons were anything to go by. 

“That’s eight to me, by the way, do keep up, Potter,” he had snarled, as he ducked and cast a savage counter-curse in response to what looked like a Stinging Hex that had got through his protective shield. 

He fought as dirty now as he ever had, though these days every spell that left his wand was legal—even after more than three months undercover with this filthy lot. Harry had given up on his grudging admiration for Malfoy’s prowess at duelling, at analytics, at neatly-filed paperwork—at most things, really. His admiration was honest and open now, at least within the private confines of his own thoughts. Strange that after everything, Malfoy would become one of the best Aurors on the force. Someone Harry wouldn’t actually mind being partnered with, if it was ever suggested. Even if he was still a dick most of the time. Even if he still got under Harry’s skin, in all the old ways, in some new ones too.

Harry cast his final _Incarcerous_ of the night on the middle-aged wizard who had snuck his spell past Malfoy’s shield; he was gaunt with potion abuse, marked with the tattoos all Azkaban inmates seemed to have. One of the incidental escapees from Voldemort’s breakout during the war, no doubt. 

“That’ll learn you, filthy traitor,” the man had sneered, then winked, grotesque, in Malfoy’s direction, before Harry lost patience and _Stupefied_ him.

Malfoy had rubbed at his chest carefully, a look of intense annoyance twisting his face as he watched.

“Disgusting,” he had sneered, before his eyebrows creased in annoyance. “And that hurt—who throws a bloody Stinging Hex under these circumstances anyway? Hardly going to stop the inevitable, is it?”

Harry had shrugged, unconcerned, his blood still singing with adrenaline, with magic, with victory. “I dunno, how’d it even get through your _Protego_? It’s usually better than mine, even.” 

“Merlin, can we at least pretend you’re modest, Potter?” 

Malfoy rolled his eyes and moved around the room, attaching Portkey buttons to each gang member's prone form and activating them one by one, sending them straight to holding cells where they would be processed. 

Harry didn’t rise to the bait, grinning when his lack of response prompted another eye roll. He was right though, his casting was some of the best and most powerful in the department. But Malfoy was especially good at Shielding Spells; he was usually the one picked to go straight to hostages or victims, to protect them in live situations. Harry was sure there was some kind of psychological explanation, Hermione would know, but he didn’t really care why Malfoy was so good at them. Just liked that when they _did_ work together, it was something he could rely on.

They had all gathered for a quick debriefing in the early hours of Sunday morning before getting sent home. Malfoy had still been rubbing at this chest with the heel of his hand, a frown creasing his forehead as he Disapparated away.

Harry had gone straight home, eaten cold leftover Chinese straight from the take-away container while he stood in front of the fridge, carelessly stripped as he climbed the stairs, and fallen asleep within moments of his head hitting the pillow. 

He only thought of Malfoy half-a-dozen times before losing consciousness. A personal record.

* * *

Draco was lying still, and pale, on a bed in a private room in St Mungos.

Harry had spent the week interrogating that gaunt, tattooed wizard they had captured together at the end of that vicious night of duelling and arrests. He had barely managed to hold back from throwing himself across the table separating them and unleashing the anger that had been simmering beneath his skin for days. Since they had realised that Malfoy’s illness was caused by a curse. Since they had tracked it back to that night; that not-actually-a-Stinging-Hex, that bloody bastard of a man who had laughed and laughed when Harry had tried to get him to tell them what spell he had used.

By lunchtime on Wednesday he’d had Wizengamot authorisation to cast _Priori Incantatem_ on his wand, a Spell Damage Specialist on hand to take notes of the details, an Express Owl waiting to deliver the outcome to St Mungo’s. And now he stood, watching Hermione make her hourly observations of Malfoy and check the monitoring charms on him. 

“Is there—” His voice caught in his throat, trapped behind the oddly shaped emotion, sitting jagged and sharp, somewhere between his heart and his tongue. “Do you—?”

Hermione maintained her professional demeanour, not an ounce of pity in her eyes, and Harry thanked his lucky stars, because he was hanging on to his temper by a thread and anything as unwelcome as _sympathy_ would throw him over the edge into furious abandon. Her logic and straightforward approach to problems was exactly what he needed. 

“I started checking records as soon as I received your letter. This curse is either very old, or they just invented it.” She chewed her bottom lip, frowning down at Malfoy’s prone form. “Obviously it’s a blood curse, but it’s unusually quick-acting. Those are usually reserved for long term vengeful attacks on a particular family rather than a duel. There aren’t many clues in the incantation itself—and we’ve already tried the simple reverse-linguistic spells and they have had no effect whatsoever. It seems to be focused on his heart, but it’s also bonded with his blood.”

“So?” he asked.

“So now I research, and we carry on with the Stasis Spells, and the Blood-Replenishing potions when the curse breaks through them. You carry on trying to get information out of the man who cast it.” A flicker of sadness across her face. “Otherwise…”

Harry swallowed, tightened his grip on the cold metal frame of the hospital bed Malfoy lay on, tried to breathe through the crashing wave of panic and helplessness that rushed through him, tidal, cold, clenching his heart like a fist.

“Otherwise he’s fucked,” he bit out.

Hermione tilted her head, a silent concession to the point. “Did you find any books? Any paperwork or notes? Have you checked if this man had his own address where he might have kept those sort of things?”

“Lots. No known address. Malfoy’s team has been chasing leads, half of the department is sifting through what we found in the warehouse but it’s all potions related, nothing about spells yet—not even a scribble in a margin.”

“Keep me posted, then. I’ll owl you if there’s any change here.” She reached out, touched his hand, her palm was warm and soft. “Try and get some rest, Harry, even if it’s just in the break-room.”

“I’ll try.”

* * *

It had started halfway through Auror cadet training.

A shared eighth year at a rebuilt Hogwarts had eased the shock of being around Malfoy again; it had got the screaming accusations out of the way, the fistfights; it had excised the anger and guilt and horror of war played out between schoolboys, made way for unexpected apologies, unanticipated thanks, the fragile beginnings of respect.

Harry hadn’t actually been surprised, like the rest of the world seemed to be, when Draco Malfoy declared he would be signing up to join the Auror ranks after school. He hadn’t said a word against him when Ministry officials eagerly looked to him to pass judgement, to give the tiniest sign he disapproved of the notion. Harry understood that aching need for structure he saw in Malfoy, that desperation to fight against the dark. He understood wanting redemption—to make up for all the lives lost—for _surviving_ when so many others hadn’t been so lucky.

He hadn’t been surprised at how well Malfoy took to studying the rules and policies of the DMLE; he had always been as avid a student as Hermione, and had only increased his commitment to his NEWTs in their final year at Hogwarts. He definitely hadn’t been surprised at how brilliant Draco was when it came to sparring practice, duelling against his fellow cadets under the jaded eyes of their grizzled instructor, given how many times over the years he had found himself on the wrong end of Malfoy’s wand.

He wasn’t even surprised by his own continued Malfoy-centric watchfulness, by the way his gaze still automatically tracked to every flash of white-blond hair around the Ministry, the way he always looked up from whatever he was doing when he heard that confident drawl. They worked together well enough, when they were paired up for case studies or put in a group. Their years of antagonism and fighting had resulted in a remarkable understanding of each other’s duelling styles and they had won top marks in the paired duelling exam, Malfoy’s precision and planning balancing Harry’s power and penchant for risk-taking.

What _did_ surprise Harry was the way his observation of Malfoy seemed to have evolved.

Without that old cloud of suspicion and rivalry distorting every interaction, Harry realised his traitorous eyes had developed a routine when he watched Malfoy, flicking up and down—eyes, mouth, shoulders, hips. He realised the way every glimpse of Malfoy caught him like a hook in his chest, leaving him gasping for air, unexpectedly hot, stirred. He realised that even the most mundane moments and movements he observed settled in his belly, feeding a growing hunger he had never seen coming. It wasn’t the raging chest-monster of his youth, it was a creeping curiosity, cataloguing and collecting new impressions of Malfoy at every opportunity. Quiet, but apparently voracious.

It surprised him when a year and a half into their training to become fully fledged Aurors he happened to be in the locker rooms at the same time as Malfoy, long after everyone else had left. Harry had been practicing in the solo duelling rooms, set up with multiple opponents for him to use the more dangerous curses and hexes on. Malfoy must have been doing his own extra-curricular training, to be here so late, in the showers after every other cadet had escaped the thumb of their supervisors. Harry had just started stripping off, wriggling out of his sweat-soaked shirt, when he noticed Malfoy’s kit on the other end of the bench. The sound of falling water, disturbed by the movement of a body underneath it, reached his ears in the quiet of the space.

Malfoy was in the shower, and all of his clothes were out here. Harry halted his movements, the sudden shocking realisation that Malfoy was right there—naked, wet, slick with soap and water—enough to momentarily render him incapable of thought.

Like anyone who had grown up in dormitories, or had played on a sports team, Harry was used to communal showers, shared space, and all of the incidental nudity and embarrassing exposures that came with the territory. He had never been ashamed of his own body, and had made a point of abiding by the unspoken rules of ‘don’t look, don’t comment’ when it came to anybody else’s for more than half his life. But now his commitment to the rules of engagement for locker room politesse was fraying as rapidly as the fabric of his shirt as he twisted it unconsciously in his grip.

From where he stood he could see the stall that Malfoy was using, and _fucking hell_ the door was slightly open. Just slightly. Barely enough to see anything. But enough. Just enough to see a _little_, as Malfoy moved under the water and came into view through the crack in the door. A slice of pale skin, a brief flash of a muscled thigh, the tender stretch of a heel, water-darkened hair, a rivulet of soap suds across one taut hip. 

The surge of want that roared to life in Harry’s chest at the sight was as strong as a well-aimed _Bombarda_, and the blush rising up his neck mirrored the stirring rush of blood in his cock. This was so fucking inappropriate. But he couldn’t stop—wouldn’t stop—he admitted to himself; self-awareness a hard-won trait whenever it came to Malfoy and Harry’s overwhelming desire to know _everything_ about him. So he lingered, quietly unlacing the leather bracers that protected his forearms and wrists, his fingers trembling ever so slightly at the thought of getting caught, of Malfoy peering around the shower door at him, seeing the obvious bulge in his too-tight sweats, and calling him out on his pervert routine in that faux-sneer he used now, deep and warm, then smirking, inviting Harry in to join him.

He shucked the leather wrist-guards, rubbing at the lace-marks left behind on the soft skin of his inner wrist as he stared helplessly at precious, stolen fragments of Malfoy, one hand drifting to press at the aching erection now trapped in his trousers. Harry bit his lip at the pressure, it was enough to light up every nerve in his body with the anticipation of pleasure, and useless enough to make him want to snarl with frustration.

But if he made a noise Malfoy would realise someone was there, would slam that door shut, would find out about Harry’s secret wanting, his watching, his unending curiosity. So he stayed silent as he toed off his ratty trainers, and shimmied out of his trousers and underwear, studiously avoiding touching himself again as he wrapped a towel around his waist and padded towards a shower stall as far from Malfoy as he could manage after throwing a Notice-Me-Not over his pile of clothing.

Safely behind his own securely shut door, Harry cast a wandless _Muffliato_ and a Disillusionment Charm over the whole stall before he slung his towel over the hook and turned on the water, hot enough to fill the space with steam in moments. It wouldn’t do to get caught now. He stowed his glasses on the shelf and stepped under the spray, tilting his head back to rinse the sweat and furtive scowl from his face. He was so turned on that every rivulet of water running down his chest, his back, between his cheeks, across his balls, tickling across the backs of his knees, felt like a tingling feather-light touch. Eyes still closed, his imagined pale fingers following those paths, imagined another body under the water with him, lean and strong and encompassing. 

He slid his hand over his chest, down his belly, took himself in hand and stroked himself with a loose grip, imagining the teasing touches Malfoy would torment him with. The drum of the water against his shoulders faded to a distant sensation as he focused entirely on the heat in his belly, the tension in his hips, the drag of his foreskin over his sensitive head as he tugged at himself in earnest. Harry braced himself with one hand planted on the tiles, his head hanging down as he panted through gritted teeth, a strangled groan catching in his throat as he barrelled towards orgasm with alarming speed. Imagined visions of shared touches, kisses, slick hands and soft skin, filled his head, urging him ever higher. He crested quick, and hard, and gasped his way through the aftermath.

Aftershocks were still trembling through his muscles when there was a sharp knock at his shower door. Harry froze, waiting, wondering who the fuck had noticed him here through the layers of warding he had laid over the stall, hoping with all his might it wasn’t Malfoy. He had been so distracted, anyone could have come into the locker room and he wouldn’t have noticed the noise. He blinked water out of his eyes as he listened for whoever was outside, his heart thudding.

“I’m sure your Notice-Me-Not is the best in the business, Potter,” Malfoy drawled as the stall door creaked; he must have leant against it, “but next time you’d like a little … _privacy_ then I’d suggest remembering to mask scent too.” He paused, inhaled deeply, deliberately loud. “Sandalwood, isn’t it?”

“Um, yeah, yeah it is.” Merlin’s fucking beard. His soap. He gave himself away with his fucking _soap_.

“Night, Potter,” Malfoy drawled, his smirk audible. “Don’t stay too late—oh, and I hope I didn’t interrupt you.” He sounded about as apologetic as a shark.

Harry’s mouth dropped open, shock at the implication that Draco knew exactly what he’d been up to and a slinking thread of embarrassed arousal made him shiver, even as the hot water continued to thrum against his skin.

“Uh—um—night, Malfoy,” he stuttered. “Have a good weekend then.”

He could have banged his head off the tiles. Some day he would be able to be slick and clever around people he fancied, but clearly, today was not that day.

* * *

No. It had started four months ago. Properly.

Well. It had happened once. But just once was enough.

Once, and every particle of Harry’s being had been changed. Transformed. The axis of his world had shifted, a new magnetic north taking solid, unrelenting control over the spin of his reality. 

Once, and the shocking, blinding clarity of—_oh_, _this_ was what had been itching under his skin since he was eleven—took root. _This_ was what had been simmering, hot, and impatiently waiting between them for half his life.

It hadn’t been a special night. There had been no big bust, no heartbreaking failure or soaring success during the working week. It was simply a mundane Friday night, the regular meet-up of Ministry-employed ex-classmates in the nearest magic-friendly pub. The Old Shades had a discrete second entrance with Muggle-repelling wards so witches and wizards could happily drink the week away without worrying about the occasional flouting of the International Statute of Secrecy.

It was a casual night out, like always. Everyone was still in their work uniforms, but the departments mixed—Aurors and Unspeakables, Admin and Legal and everything in between. It started out relaxed but still work-focused, all shop-talk and bitching, then robes unbuttoned, ties loosened, and laughter grew raucous as the evening wore on and everyone got a few drinks down them. 

Harry had been half-cut by eight, pleasantly buzzed and slouching into his seat. He ordered chips to stave off flaking and going home early. Malfoy had stolen half the bowl after drenching it in salt and vinegar, licking his fingers methodically after every mouthful. 

Then Malfoy stole the last sip of Harry’s drink. Then he stole his seat when Harry headed to the toilet. He smirked, pleased as punch and unrepentant when Harry had to shuffle over his lap to squeeze into the remaining spot on the banquette seating on his return, because of course the bloody bastard wouldn’t get up to let him in. He even stole Harry’s space, letting his long legs splay under the table, his thigh a hot line of firm muscle against Harry’s, his shoulder at once a warm support and enclosure. 

Harry couldn’t think beyond the acute physical awareness of Malfoy beside him, the scent of him. He sipped his beer and nodded in the right places as his friends talked, but his mind was completely occupied with wondering at the warmth of Malfoy, at the contrast between that cold, haughty armour he wore with the _heat_ of him here against Harry, every movement he made telegraphed along Harry’s nerves, second-hand. All along Malfoy kept up his usual urbane conversation with everyone around the table, dramatically recounting the week's work, a raconteur in his element—all enthusiastic hand gestures, and surprisingly accurate impressions.

Then, as the evening reached its peak of drunken liveliness, Malfoy managed to steal Harry’s house keys right out of his pocket, light-fingered and as uncaring of propriety once he deemed you within his circle as he was scrupulous about it if you weren’t. Harry felt it, of course, but probably only because Malfoy intended him to. He watched out of the corner of his eye, completely losing track of Cho’s story, as Malfoy casually slipped back into his discarded work robes and stood. Once again he drained the last of Harry’s pint, then sauntered towards the door of the pub, lazily dangling Harry’s keys in his fingers where he could spot them easily, gold and glinting like a Snitch in the dim light of the bar. 

He didn’t go far. By the time Harry extricated himself from Ron, Pansy, and the rest of the mingled Auror cohort, fumbling excuses in the face of their teasing expressions, he found Malfoy leaning against the wall of the pub. Silhouetted against the nearest street light, the glimmer of his hair was a golden halo, the outline of those broad shoulders lit up like an artist's sketch of strength and confidence, his breath silver curls of mist in the cold winter air. His face was a mystery, cast in shadow; the darkness of the night wrapped him up, hiding him from Harry. 

“Shall I Side-Along you?” he asked, his voice giving nothing away. 

Was he taking Harry home because he thought he’d splinch himself? To get away from the hustle-and-bustle of the pub? To drink Harry’s good Firewhiskey? Was he even planning to take Harry back to Grimmauld Place?

“Where to?” 

Malfoy was an exemplary Auror. He had carved a reputation for excellence from the drag-anchor of his childhood mistakes, but had never lost his ability to make Harry lose his head. Never stopped muddying the waters of Harry’s sureties with a smirk, or a grin, maintaining his absolute lack of concern for allowing Harry to keep up—though Harry sometimes wondered if it was simply confidence that he always would. Harry was willing to sound like an idiot if it brought some kind of clarity to this bout of Malfoy’s particular brand of opacity.

“Yours, of course,” Malfoy retorted, jingling the keys in his hand. “What do you think _these_ are for?”

He wanted to take Harry home.

Harry stepped towards Malfoy, wary, hopeful, the warmth of their legs pressed together beneath the table in the pub still echoing through his body, igniting the quiet wish that had lurked in his chest for a while now. 

“Closer, Potter.”

Harry moved closer still, a hand’s breadth away, near enough that Malfoy’s body heat protected his front from the cool night air. “Close enough?”

Malfoy reached out, sliding his hand up into the loose sleeve of Harry’s robe, snaking elegant fingers under wool to clasp around his forearm. His hands were warm, too, and Harry shivered, a confusion of sensations as he cradled Malfoy’s elbow in return. 

“It’ll do,” Malfoy murmured, his eyes finally catching the light, glinting like some night-time creature, pupils wide. Heat there, too, and the granite surety of a decision made. No confusion for him.

And then they were spinning through space, Malfoy’s magic squeezing the distance between Westminster and Islington into the fraction of a moment. They landed with a crack, a tableau of anticipation on the steps to Harry’s house, Malfoy’s hand still wrapped around his arm as Grimmauld Place politely unfolded itself from the neighbouring houses. It settled into place with a grinding of bricks, and Malfoy let go of Harry and stepped back. 

The square was dark, but the street lights worked their mundane magic, throwing Malfoy’s bone structure into sharp relief, revealing the strangeness of him, the beauty. Harry caught the curve of a half-smile as Malfoy leaned past him, put key to lock, opened the front door of Harry’s home, stepped past the threshold, and turned back to hold his hand out, palm up. An invitation.

“Shall we?”

This would change things. They weren’t partners, didn’t even work on the same team, so there were no official rules against it—even though that probably wouldn’t have been enough to hold him back. They were friends though. Harry had grown to appreciate Malfoy’s dry wit, lightning-fast reflexes, filthy humour, his selective but fierce loyalty, his surprising depths. This was irrevocable. It was a line in the sand and Malfoy had danced across it first, and now he was asking Harry to join him, a glint of diamond-bright challenge in his eyes. 

Harry had never yet seen that glimmer and been able to resist, and he didn’t want to think about a day when he ever wanted to. The slide of his fingers over Malfoy’s was warm, broad palm meeting palm, heartline to heartline. “Alright.”

Draco took his hand and drew him over the threshold—because he was Draco here, now, he had to be—into his arms, as close as they had ever been outside of the sparring room, outside of a fight. For a moment, nothing happened but the gentle glow of the hallway lights coming to life in their presence. 

As Harry’s eyes adjusted to the light, he looked Draco fully in the face, unashamedly drinking in every tiny part of that familiar visage. Here, in Harry’s home, brought out of the night, he didn’t look like some magical creature, he was just a man. Beautiful, imperfect, human. His eyes were a warm grey, there was a scar bisecting his right eyebrow, the faintest freckles across his nose; his breath smelled faintly of vinegar and Firewhiskey, and he had an ink stain smudged across the hinge of his jaw. His expression was open, honest, and Harry’s heart leapt in his chest at the sight.

Harry leaned in, and the first sweet shock of finally feeling Draco’s mouth under his was enough to take his breath away, a shaky gasp that served only to spur Draco on. Clever hands slipped his Auror robes from his shoulders, trailed down his arms leaving goosebumps in their wake, settled warm and proprietorial at his waist, gripping tighter as Harry angled his head and licked Draco’s bottom lip. Salt, the smoke of Firewhiskey, that intimate sweetness of another person’s mouth. And then they were devouring each other, all restraint left behind them, their personal Rubicon crossed and already out of mind. 

Draco had led them this far, and Harry was happy to take the baton and race ahead. He walked Draco backwards towards the living room. His only thought was of finding somewhere soft to lay him out and strip him bare, to look his fill, and taste, and touch, and feel, to drown himself in fair skin and warm hands. Draco clearly approved, allowing himself to be manoeuvred with uncharacteristic docility, though he didn’t make it easy, still kissing Harry, mouthing along his jaw as Harry moved them towards the largest sofa.

Harry slid his hands up Draco’s chest, and shoved gently, fiercely pleased with the sprawl of open arms and parted legs that resulted. Still standing, he looked down at Draco, and started unbuttoning his shirt. Those grey eyes had some magic of their own, and Harry could feel the weight of his gaze like a physical thing, stroking every inch of exposed skin as he slowly stripped himself for his viewing pleasure. Unbidden, the vision of Draco in the shower in the locker room rose up from the depths, those memories burned indelibly into his mind. Harry had felt precious little guilt at the time, or since, but now he relished the notion of paying him back for those delicious, stolen moments.

His own cock ached, restricted by his work trousers and underwear, as his gaze was caught by the movement of Draco’s hand. Pale fingers slid down to cup a generous bulge, his thumb stroking up and down as he widened his legs where he sat. Harry could still feel him watching, hot and heavy, but couldn’t take his own eyes away from Draco’s erection, the coarse eroticism of him rubbing himself through those neatly pressed wool trousers. Harry’s mouth watered at the sight; Draco’s ironclad self-control and sense of propriety crumbling under the weight of the desire simmering between them, so heavy Harry felt he could reach out and touch it.

Instead, he sank to his knees, breathing deeply through the resulting rush of adrenaline at the way his position made something dark flicker across Draco’s face, something hungry. He had done this before, but still his hands trembled as he reached out to unbutton Draco’s trousers. The bastard wasn’t wearing underwear. Dark blond curls were wiry against his fingertips as he parted the placket of Draco’s trousers, gripped the waistband, tugged them down over slim hips, exposing his cock, pink and ruddy and shining wet at the head, his balls, tight and full and softly fuzzy, his thighs, pale and strong. Harry leaned forward, lowered his head, nuzzled into the crease where thigh met hip, and inhaled the scent of him. Warm, spicy, the musk of precome and sweat serving only to drag him higher into the spiralling lust prickling over his body.

Fingers threaded through his hair, stroking errant curls away from his forehead and tenderly cupping the back of his neck as he breathed him in. Harry looked up to Draco’s face, pupils blown sky-wide, lips parted, and something in those grey eyes that sank like a hook into somewhere deep inside him. It felt like capture, it felt like ascendancy.

The first taste of him—salty-sweet-sour—exploded on Harry’s tongue as he licked experimentally, watching Draco’s face for his reaction, gratification settling like a heavy cloak upon him at the shuddering inhalation, the flash of white teeth biting into the soft skin of his bottom lip. Any restraint left in Harry was washed away at the sight, the sensation. He wrapped the fingers of one hand around the base of Draco’s cock and slid the other up under his still-buttoned shirt to stroke across soft skin, press against the pounding of his heart. 

Harry opened his mouth, moved lower, spit-slick, wet, and felt that same pulse throbbing against his tongue. Silk-soft skin and the solid weight of Draco’s prick slid further, pressed against Harry’s soft palate with the glide of precome. He kept his eyes on Draco’s face, as shamelessly unwilling to miss a moment as he ever had been when watching him, even though the temptation to close his eyes and drift into honeyed oblivion at the sensory onslaught of the moment was almost overwhelming. 

Like most things in his life, Harry was happiest when he was taking care of his lovers; he liked to indulge them, to spoil, to lavish attention upon them. But he’d never quite wanted to worship them with the fervour he felt now. After all this time of watching and waiting, to finally have Draco here in his grasp felt like a long awaited victory, like Harry was being gifted something precious with every shift of Draco’s body and half-restrained thrust of his hips, every sigh and thundering beat of his heart under Harry’s fingertips. 

He hollowed his cheeks, curled his tongue, shivered with satisfaction at the moan that finally dragged out of Draco. Harry moved in earnest now, jaw beginning to ache from the solid stretch of Draco’s girth, and he set to sinking lower still. Draco’s eyes widened when he realised what Harry was doing, the gentle touch at the nape of his neck tightened infinitesimally. Harry took a deep breath through his nose and pressed down, slowly letting it out as he forced the head of Draco’s cock further still; it felt huge, hot and hard in his throat. 

Harry’s chest started to tighten, and blood rushed in his ears as he held his breath and nestled Draco’s length deep in the softness of his throat again, and again, until Draco wrapped his fingers into the tangled mess of his hair, drawing him up and off his cock for a moment, watching him as he gasped wetly. They had been quiet so far, since Harry stepped over the threshold of his home into Draco’s arms, but Draco broke the silence, his voice rough and low with arousal.

“May I?” He tugged at the handful of Harry’s hair he held.

Harry’s own voice was barely a whisper, his mouth felt clumsy, swollen, desperately empty. “Yes.”

The guttural groan that prompted from Draco was enough to make Harry’s aching cock twitch and pulse in his underwear, and the gentle but unrelenting pressure at the back of his head forcing him down onto Draco’s prick lit a fire low in his belly, shocking in its intensity. Something in him loved this, loved the way Draco had taken control, finally giving Harry permission to unfold the tightly packed universe of want he had been holding back for so long now and lay it out for him, here on his knees. He wondered if his own eyes showed the depth of it all, the sprawling totality of it. He feared they did. He _hoped_ they did.

With Draco’s hand firm in his hair, holding him still, and his hips rolling up against his face, Harry finally gave in. He closed his eyes, lashes clinging with dampness, listening to the roar of his pulse in his ears, yielding to the gentle force of Draco’s control, the kiss of his swollen lips against crisp pubic hair on every downstroke, the wet slide of saliva escaping the corner of his mouth, the slick sounds of suction, the sweetness of swallowing, opening for Draco’s cock, forsaking air for just a little more of that aching pressure. 

It could have been minutes, or hours; Harry drifted, lost in the sensation, but eventually Draco’s movements sped up. His thrusts lost their smooth pace, turning jerky and frantic. Harry opened his eyes, somehow still stunned to find Draco looking as affected as he was. The hand not controlling Harry’s head must have been running through his own hair. It was tousled and wild, falling over his forehead. His eyes were blazing, fierce and hawk-bright, fixed on Harry’s face. His thighs trembled around Harry’s shoulders, the muscles of his stomach twitched, and his grip on Harry’s hair tightened to the point of pain as he orgasmed. His come was hot. It filled Harry’s mouth, smearing across his lips as Draco continued to thrust, both of them messy with it, the scent and taste and feel of it enough to make Harry’s eyes flutter, enough to make his cock throb, dangerously close to the edge just from this.

Draco gasped shakily above him, his fingers loosening their grip in Harry’s hair as he shuddered where he sat. Harry let his cock fall from his mouth, licked his lips, caught his breath, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

“_Fuck_—get up here.” Draco’s voice was gravel, hot with desire and Harry basked in the warmth.

Harry clambered awkwardly from his position on the floor up onto Draco’s lap, settling carefully; he leaned into the palm cupping his cheek, the kiss he was drawn into. His lips were swollen, sticky with spit and come, flushed with the friction of flesh against flesh, and Draco kissed him so carefully; licked, and sucked, and sipped at his mouth like a fine wine. Those pale fingers were back in his hair, tangling in the messy length of it, neatly manicured nails tracing shivering paths across his scalp.

“That was—you were—” Draco cut himself off with another lingering kiss, and Harry could have crowed with smug pride that _he_ was the one to make him abandon speech. “You were _so good_, Harry, so good.”

The unexpected praise hit him like a sucker punch to the solar plexus, his gut tightening with arousal, his higher thought processes melting under the sunlight of Draco’s approval. Surprised, he buried his face into Draco’s throat, chasing the lingering spice of his cologne, the sting of stubble against his abused lips, kissing that smudge of ink at his jaw. 

“Draco, I—” He swallowed hard, shocked at the rough edge to his own voice, heat prickling at the back of his neck at the thought of feeling this ache in his throat even tomorrow. “I need—”

Draco wrapped his arms around Harry’s waist, and slid them both sideways to lie stretched out on the sofa. 

“I know exactly what you need,” he murmured as he arranged Harry’s body over him.

Draco’s hands were sure and confident as he manhandled him, settling him in a straddle across one strong thigh. They still hadn’t properly undressed, him with just his flies undone, Harry shirtless, but he made no move to remedy the situation. He simply lay back, dishevelled and flushed, his cock still half-hard where it lay against his belly. Proud and relaxed, a debauched prince completely at ease. 

“You need to come, Harry, and I want you to do it right now.”

“I—”

“Come on,” he coaxed, reaching up. One hand clasped the side of Harry’s throat, thumb stroking the tender skin under his chin, pressing in; the other slipped around his naked waist to settle, hot and heavy at the base of his back, pulling his hips down until his still-clothed erection was pressed hard against the meat of Draco’s thigh. Harry gasped, helpless in the face of the sudden pressure, and Draco’s grin was knife-bright. “Come on,” he repeated, a low whisper, “I want to see.”

The first roll of his hips was instinctual and unconscious, a hind-brain response, an unthinking acquiescence to Draco’s request. In every other area of their relationship he lived to challenge him, to dig his heels in and resist. But here, now, he melted; he floated on the treacle-thick bliss of giving in, of the implicit _yes_ in every movement, of the soaring pleasure rising Snitch-swift in every nerve, of Draco’s face lighting up with fierce satisfaction at the sight of Harry moving above him, against him, _for_ him.

It was too soon, too soon for him to feel that tell-tale tightening in his pelvis, too soon for curling toes and trembling thighs. But Harry felt like he had been on the edge since the first moment Draco filled his mouth, every crackling moment of eye contact, every word, every slide of skin and brush of lips another nudge towards oblivion. He wanted to cover his face, curl into Draco’s chest and hide from the oncoming storm of sensation, from his own blatant want: his panting breath, his open mouth, the sheen of sweat he worked up as he greedily rode and rubbed himself against Draco.

But Draco’s hand at his jaw was firm, holding his face up, exposing Harry to his hungry gaze, and despite himself, Harry couldn’t look away. He rutted, base and graceless in his animal chase of orgasm, uncaring of the layers between them—because what were clothes in the face of Draco’s piercing eyes, what could they possibly conceal? His pulse thundered in his ears, and Draco’s whispered words of filth and adoration poured into him like sand into an hourglass, filling him up until time ran out and with uncontrolled jerks and thrusts of his hips he was coming, long, and hard, ecstasy pulled from the depths of him.

* * *

A week of frenzied searching, half of the DMLE working overtime, six days sleeping on the couch in his office until finally, Robards had sent him home to rest. He had slept, fitful and full of dreams where he ran, and ran, and ran, chasing the glint of silver hair, the flash of a red Auror robe. He’d showered at three in the morning, dressed and eaten at four, then sat with files until an owl interrupted him, impatient at his living room window.

Harry cracked the official St Mungo’s wax seal and unfolded Hermione’s tightly wrapped missive, reading quickly. As if getting it over quickly enough would make the news any better. That theory failed, of course. Her letter was short, to the point, and as devastating as he had feared.

_Harry,  
Curse has advanced, Malfoy now losing magic as well as blood. Come in, ASAP.  
Hermione_

Harry whirled into Apparition to St Mungo’s before he had even finished standing from the sofa. He arrived near the reception desk and shouldered his way into the lift, ignoring the frustrated shouts from the Welcome Witch behind him, grateful he had actually got dressed before receiving his summons because at least he wasn’t marching through the hospital in his pyjamas.

He didn’t have time for bureaucratic bullshit right now. It was only respect for the rage Hermione would unleash on him and the knowledge that every ward in the hospital was currently cosseting the vulnerable body of Draco Malfoy that had held him back from tearing right through the hospital wards to arrive directly by Draco’s bedside. An unsigned visitor’s book was the least of his worries.

As he strode through the halls, his mind ticked over with increasingly panicked thoughts. Draco was losing magic? How did that even work? How did Hermione know? How—Harry broke off his own spiralling train of thought. Hermione had told him what to do. He was here now. Maybe he could help, maybe he could watch Draco for a bit, let Hermione have a minute to _think_ and maybe she could figure this thing out like she figured everything out. 

He reached the door to the Spell Damage Ward and steeled himself before entering. The heavy infection control wards slid over him, leaving a tingling, sterile, cleanliness in their wake. Any germs, spores, or magical contaminants vapourised in the blink of an eye. Harry kept his head down as he made his way to Draco’s private room, avoiding the sight of other maligned witches and wizards, loath to intrude on their private misery, preoccupied with his own.

The ward around Draco’s room was even heavier. He had no idea what it was doing but he felt it drag over his magic like sandpaper, leaving goosebumps and raised hair in its wake; if he were a dog his hackles would have been raised at the intrusion. Hermione was in there with another Healer, both of them casting continuously over Draco. Harry blinked through the sudden, hot, prickling behind his eyes as he watched, hearing nothing over the rushing blur in his ears, the sight before him worse than his panicked imagination had been able to conjure up.

Draco was lying still, and pale, on a bed in a private room in St Mungo's. As still as he had been for the last fortnight. But now. Now there were faint swirls of movement around him, like the shimmer of heat above the tarmac on a baking hot day, a vibration in the air that Harry’s eyes couldn’t quite focus on. Delicate, infinitesimal glimmers of light floated on those ripples in the air. Not sparks, nothing so bold, nothing so defined. This was finer than fairy dust, this was the rainbow-tinted glow of the moon behind the clouds on an autumn night. Harry smelt ozone in the air, roses, tasted burnt sugar and the firework afterburn of offensive magic at the back of his tongue. 

It was Draco’s magic. Deserting him. Harry swallowed down the tears threatening to fall, the bile rising in his throat, the horror of this happening to Draco. Draco, who was so deeply a creature of magic that he wouldn’t survive a moment without it. Wouldn’t want to. Draco, whose casting was instinctive and effervescent, imaginative and savage, nimble and clever and utterly, utterly magical. 

And someone had done this to him, someone had deliberately caused his magic to abandon him. It was slow, he could see that much, the glimmer and shimmer of it stronger in the air around his mouth, his casting hand, his chest, and Hermione and her colleague were clearly working to contain the flow, staunch the loss of magic like they had staunched the loss of blood. Harry clenched his hands helplessly, wondering what in the world Hermione thought he could do here. 

It must have only been moments, but it felt like days before Hermione withdrew her wand and murmured to her assistant before turning to Harry, a grim look on her face.

“Heather, keep that up while I’m gone,” Hermione instructed, and patted at the gold fob on her belt. “Just send out the alert if you start getting tired or anything changes.”

A confident nod was all the response her assistant gave her, as she continued her mantra of containment charms over Draco. Hermione looked happy enough with that, and took Harry by the arm to lead him out of the room towards her office at the head of the ward.

She gestured to the comfortable chair in front of her desk as she moved to sit in her own. “Sit down, Harry, I’ll make it quick and then you need to head into the Ministry.”

She didn’t wait for him to reply before continuing in the brisk, no-nonsense tone of voice she had developed in her early days of residency. “This new symptom presented about half an hour before I owled you so you’re almost the first to know. His team reported that they didn’t find anything in any of the papers from the warehouse. I need you to interrogate the man who cursed him, again, I know you’ve already tried but I need _something_ more to go on if I’m going to narrow down what he’s done. You have to throw your weight around—pull whatever strings you’ve got access to, pressure whoever you can, pull out that Order of Merlin and rub some noses in it if you need to—I just need more data.”

“Alright, I can do that. Will it—” Harry hesitated, not wanting to ask, not wanting the answer he was sure he would get. “I can do that.”

“I need anything, Harry. Anything you can get me.” Her lips were a thin line, she touched her hand to them, like she was trying to hold back the words that were coming. “I need a clue. Something I can work with. Otherwise this will simply progress and we will not be able to reverse it. Draco will bleed out, his magic will escape him, and he will die. I’m so sorry, Harry, I know that—”

Harry held up his hand, halting her, bone-deep relieved when she relented. “Don’t, I—don’t,” he managed to grind out from behind clenched teeth. “I’ll owl as soon as I find anything.”

He strode out of her office, through the ward, and this time the Welcome Witch was silent as he marched past her desk.

* * *

They had lain together for hours in the aftermath.

Stripped down to their boxers. Warm and buzzing with endorphins in front of the fire Harry had ignited with a lazy wave of his hand. Another had cleaned the sticky mess in his underwear. He left the rest—sweat and saliva and the heavy scent of sex on the air—trophies, a tangible remnant. They lay side by side, legs tangled, Harry’s head rested on Draco’s chest, rising and falling along with every breath, his heartbeat solid and steady beneath his cheek.

They hadn’t spoken much. Quiet murmurs, affirmations. Draco’s hand was back in his hair, gently carding through his curls, soothing, absent-minded petting like Harry was some great cat. If he could, he would have purred in contentment. 

“Are you comfy?” Draco asked.

“Mmm.”

“Should we—?”

“No, let's stay right here.”

Harry didn’t want to disturb this moment. Didn’t want to move an inch, to peel himself away from the heat and softness of a post-orgasmic Draco Malfoy. Didn’t want to bring him into his bed until he knew what he wanted; whether this was a bit of fun—finally letting off steam after twelve years of antagonism—or more. Harry lay, basking, gathering his scattered mind, and waiting. 

As delicious as it had been, as unbelievably sensual, as down-to-his-bones _right_ as it had felt, he had to know. He waited until he couldn’t bear it any longer, until tension crept back into his shoulders. Draco noticed, of course. 

“Go on then, what is it that’s making you twitchy?” Draco sighed, heavy, his fingers falling still in Harry’s hair. “Regret, already?”

“No!” Harry propped himself up on one elbow to look at Draco, faltering at the carefully shuttered expression he found, “No. Is this—do you—?” He paused, not sure how to ask. Not sure how to phrase it without revealing too much, too soon.

Draco watched him carefully, before he resumed his gentle strokes to Harry’s curls, “I’m visiting my mother this weekend, what about Monday? We can … clarify.”

Clarify. He said it cool as a breeze. Like they were planning an excursion, or scheduling a meeting. Not falling into each other. Not tearing down carefully built defences. Not taking flight, together, entwined. 

Harry nodded, quiet, and dropped his head back onto Draco’s chest. They could ‘clarify’ on Monday, and he would play along with Draco’s attempt to distance himself. But he knew now, he’d seen Draco’s face, his eyes; his expression as wide open as he had ever seen it, his guard utterly undone, given up willingly.

Maybe he didn’t want to admit it yet, even to himself, but Harry was ready to be patient. This taste would be enough to tide him over. He knew how to carry hope like a torch inside of him. He knew how to watch Draco. And now he knew how to make him safe, make him understood, he knew how to give him time. He could wait.

Monday had arrived, grey and wet, and Draco had been sent undercover with the gang of wizards his team had been tracking for a month, with immediate effect.

* * *

Randall Rose, wizard, fifty-two years old. Criminal history as long as Harry’s arm, literally; the parchment record covered his desk. Freed from Azkaban during the Second Wizarding War by Voldemort; an incidental, no Dark Mark though he was undoubtedly a sympathiser. A taste for experimenting with Dark Magic on house-elves and Squib children, along with numerous other criminal activities. The last man arrested on the night of the bust. Wielder of unknown curse against Auror Draco Malfoy. Dead in his cell on the morning of Monday 6th February, 2006. Cause of death: time-delayed poison.

Panic and rage warred within Harry for primacy. He’d had a plan. A warrant from the Wizengamot for use of Veritaserum—finally—and a Legilimens Specialist on hand to double check that Rose was telling the truth. Hermione needed information. So he’d thrown his weight around as requested, leaned on his name, his friendship with Minister Shacklebolt, his friendship with the ailing Auror in question, everything he could think of to hasten their approval. And now he couldn’t give her anything. Because the bastard was dead, robbing Harry of the satisfaction of doing it himself. He was safely beyond Harry’s reach, taking his secrets with him, stealing Malfoy’s hope of recovery.

He had sent Hermione an owl immediately, better she knew now that they were running blind, that she and her team were the last line of defence. That done, Harry let his head fall into his hands, rubbing under his glasses and leaning into the heel of his hands until bursts of colour sparked behind his eyelids. He tried to practice the breathing exercises his Mind Healer had taught him: in—two, three, out—two, three, four. But tears of frustration burned along his lashes, and the heavy mass of anger in his chest writhed and grew, tendrils of fury creeping through his body.

The door to his office opened, closed, soft footsteps sounded across the carpet. Ron, probably. He had never knocked; never would if Harry had anything to do with it. The springs in the chair on the other side of Harry’s desk creaked as Ron settled his weight, and Harry could picture him in his mind: broad shoulders, long limbs, sitting with his elbows on his knees, strategist's eyes assessing the situation.

“Mate,” he started, his voice low, careful. 

And that was enough to crumble the delicate hold Harry had on himself, for the reins to slip through his fingers, for his emotions to sense the inch, take a mile. If he kept his eyes shut tightly enough, the tears might not fall. If he ground his teeth hard enough, unchecked thoughts might not tumble out, irrevocable, revealing. But he couldn’t hold back the crackle of energy at his fingertips, the roiling surge of his magic latching on to every object in the room and _pulling_; his desire to keep everything inside made manifest.

Even though hiding in his hands spared him the sight of it, Harry could hear the tumble of folders and books from the shelves around his office, the drag of furniture as it shifted across the floor, the clatter and and rattle of the contents of drawers trying to escape. He didn’t hear Ron move though, and jumped when a heavy hand fell on his shoulder and gripped steadily, igniting the muscle-memory of half a lifetime of steadfast support and brotherhood.

“_Mate_,” he repeated, no censure, just the same quiet belief he had always had in Harry’s capacity for strength. “We’re going to work this out. Hermione’s on it. She’s called Neville down from Hogwarts, he’s meeting her at St Mungo’s now.” Another squeeze to Harry’s shoulder. “I told her about Randall Rose being out of the picture now, she’s already adjusting her plan.”

Harry’s magic curled up, soothed by the touch and Ron’s calm voice, retreating back into him. His office wasn’t shaking any more. A fine tremor shook through his body instead, and he leaned into the warm palm on his shoulder. 

“Let’s go for a walk, get some air,” Ron suggested, and Harry was nodding before he could stop himself.

He wanted to stay in the office, join the rest of the team out in the main floor sifting through singed parchment and scribbled ledgers for the hundredth time hoping that _this time_ would be the one they spotted a clue. But he couldn’t, not when he was like this, not when the tension of the whole department worrying for one of their own was ratcheting up by the moment, not when Harry felt like a caged animal, helpless and frightened and ready to lash out.

“Alright,” he rubbed at his eyes before settling his glasses and standing. “Thanks, Ron, I’m just—”

“I know, mate. Everyone’s on it, we can walk, and then see what Hermione and Nev come up with.”

* * *

Sunday morning brought another summons to St Mungo’s. Two-and-a-half weeks of ever-increasing tension, desperation, fear spreading like spilled ink through every cell of his body while they waited for a breakthrough. Harry hadn’t slept, not properly, not since the first night Draco had been in St Mungo's, but he felt like he could stay awake for weeks with the way every nerve jangled with anticipation as he set on the edge of the chair at Hermione’s desk once again.

Neville was there too, dark circles under his eyes proof of the frenetic research he and Hermione had been engaged in for the last fortnight. Harry hadn’t even seen him since he arrived in London; he and Hermione had been cloistered in her research space in St Mungo’s, barely coming up for air.

Pansy sat next to Harry—Draco’s official next-of-kin since they joined the Aurors. Her back was straight and not a hair was out of place in her bob, sleek and knife-sharp below her ears. But Harry could see the lines of tension on her face, the almost imperceptible clench of her jaw, the uncharacteristic stillness. Waiting for news, expecting the worst.

“Right, I won’t beat about the bush, this is a risky option but I think—” Hermione gestured to Neville “—_we_ think we have found a feasible way to help Draco.”

Neville nodded, and Harry chewed at his thumbnail, waiting. Pansy’s foot twitched, her full mouth pinched and her face pale with anxiety as Hermione continued.

“We want to use a Muggle technique called a blood transfusion, but it’s not enough to simply replace Draco’s cursed blood unfortunately, even if we found someone who was compatible.”

“What is enough then?” snapped Pansy, hard-earned politeness eroded in the face of worry for her best friend.

“We use the transfusion method to fill Draco with highly magically charged blood—literally replacing his own—and then use that blood as a magical conduit to cast the counter-curse I’ve formulated. We think that with the right potions and plants to augment the process, the blood can be used almost like a wand by the donor. It’s the only way to overwhelm the way the curse has attached itself to Draco’s system. We can’t cast externally, it’s too focused—it would only target one area of his body at a time—this is like immersing him fully in the spell from within.”

“That’s why you’ve got Potter here then? He’s still not shaken off that saving people complex, thank Merlin. And if we’re looking for lots of magic,” Pansy nodded at Harry, the merest hint of a wry smile on her face, “he’s usually the man for the job. Practically overflowing, aren’t you?”

He knew he couldn’t have got away with his brief loss of control in his office, but Pansy’s gentle dig felt like a tiny pinprick of normality and he couldn’t begrudge her it. He almost smiled himself, her sharp humour so like Draco’s after a lifetime of friendship. 

He didn’t smile though. His skin shuddered at the idea of having this chalked up to a proclivity for saving people. Draco wasn’t just ‘people’. He was one of _Harry’s_ people. He knew Pansy looked at the world through a shade of Slytherin green, knew that she mistook this for Gryffindor heroism. But this was selfish. This was Harry willing to do anything to spare himself a world without Draco in it, without biting sarcasm and startling wit, without silver-grey eyes and rare smiles.

Hermione nodded at Pansy. “Yes, that’s why we’ve got him here—if you’ll consent, Harry—this is a reasonably difficult bit of magic, and there _is_ a small chance the curse could travel through the transfusion and take root in your blood too. I don’t want you to feel you hav—”

“I’ll do it,” Harry interrupted, no need to think about his answer, no point hiding his investment in Draco’s wellbeing at this point, he’d already shown his hand to all and sundry. “I’ll do it. What do you need?”

“I need you to learn the incantation, to be ready tomorrow morning, I don’t want to wait any longer than we absolutely have to—the curse could break through our Containment and Stasis Charms at any point.” She slid forward an official-looking parchment. “And I need you to sign this—you too, Pansy—this is an experimental treatment and I’ve been given a special dispensation to conduct it. But we need documented consent from both parties. Pansy, you are representing Draco.”

Two swift signatures later, his scrawled, Pansy’s neatly looping, and Hermione was teaching Harry the spell. He was sent home with several potions to drink overnight, a bundle of fragrant herbs Neville said would help prepare him to put under his pillow, and instructions to be on the ward at the start of the early shift the following day. 

For the first time in more than a month, a kernel of hope flickered to life in Harry’s chest.

* * *

Draco was lying still, and pale, on a bed in a private room in St Mungo's. The sheets were white, clean, enchanted against stains, vanishing the blood that kept spilling out of him. Around his bed, Stasis and Containment Charms worked around the clock to staunch the flow of blood and magic that was escaping him, keeping him alive, working against the grinding inevitability of the curse. He hadn’t moved in more than two weeks. Not a twitch of his elegant fingers. Not a blink of his fierce eyes. Harry couldn’t even see the faint flutter of his pulse through the pale blue glow of the Stasis Charms from where he stood at the foot of the bed, helpless, impotent, hoping with every fibre of his being that Hermione was right.

Harry was wearing a regulation St Mungo’s patient gown. A simple pale green cotton smock that matched Draco’s. It was as far from the vibrant red of their Auror uniforms as you could get, and it washed out Draco’s complexion; Harry hated it. He folded his arms, his shoulders twitching with discomfort. It was strange, being so underdressed in so public a place, while not being sick himself. Even though the room wasn’t cold, he felt exposed, vulnerable—the back of his neck on show, his arms, his feet bare. Goosebumps raced up his body. 

A pang of yearning so sudden and sharp that it hurt shot through his heart, fast as a curse, at the memory of the last time he had been barefoot around Draco—this exposed, and more. Their legs and feet had been lazily tangled as they lay together on Harry’s sofa, basking in the afterglow, murmuring quietly to each other in the half-light of the embers in the hearth. Harry could hardly breathe past the hollow ache in his chest that he had experienced that glimpse of Draco—that window into his private self, that brief interlude of intimacy, of being able to touch and taste and trace his love with fingers and tongue—and hadn’t pursued him properly, had let it just be once, hadn’t acted before _this_. Hot anger burned at the corner of his eyes, that his hopes had been stymied by Draco’s stupid talent for undercover work, Robards’ stupid plan, his own _stupid_ confidence on the night of the raid that let Draco get hurt in the first place.

This wasn’t the time for indulging in regret though. A second bed had been brought into the spacious private room, lined up next to Draco’s, ready and waiting for Harry to take up residence. Hermione had cleared the room for him, gifted him this moment's grace before they gambled everything on the slimmest chance to save Draco. Harry moved to sit on his bed, unclasped his watch and laid it on the side table. He indulged himself in one last clear look at Draco, his heart clenching with the desire to reach out and touch him; to stroke his hair, to hold his hand, to brush a kiss against his forehead. But he couldn’t, so he swallowed down his hopeless wishes, took off his glasses, and lay back on the bed.

Hermione must have been watching through the door, because as soon as he was fully reclined, she slipped into the room.

“All ready, Harry?”

“Yeah, yeah I am. What do I—?”

“For now, just lie back and relax, when the time comes I’ll tell you exactly what to do.” Even without his glasses he could see her reassuring smile across the room. “Just follow my instructions and I’ll take care of the rest.”

Harry mustered a smile, though he knew it was pained. “Well, that method has never let me down yet, Hermione. I trust you.”

He lay back on the thin pillow, tried to settle himself comfortably as Hermione moved around the room. Another Healer joined her, and he reined in his nervous twitches as they cast over Draco, then over him, again, and again. His skin prickled, tingled, flashed hot and then cold, his pulse raced, loud in his ears. He didn’t know what the spells were, and at this point he didn’t care; he only hoped, fervently, desperately, that this would work. Hoped that he matched Draco in all the ways that counted, hoped his night of memorising Hermione’s counter-curse worked—he must have spoken it aloud to the walls of his bedroom a hundred times or more—hoped he had the power to make sure Hermione and Neville’s plan would work.

They had explained, when he arrived, that in addition to the slim possibility that the curse might travel through the transfusion and into Harry, there was another risk to the procedure. Even if Neville’s plant tincture and potions enhanced Harry’s magical focus, and if Hermione’s counter-curse did overwhelm the Dark Magic lurking in Draco’s body—there was no guarantee that his system wouldn’t simply reject Harry’s blood, his magic. Hermione and the other Healers were using spells to try and ensure compatibility, but there wasn’t a guarantee. If their precautions didn't work, well, Hermione had tried to shield the book in front of her from Harry’s eyes, but he had seen. It wasn’t good.

Three more Healers came in with Neville, rolling a trolley full of plants ahead of him. Poppy-like red Anemone flowers for new life from blood, Yarrow for healing and stemming blood-loss, a curious fern with red leaves that swayed from side to side that Neville said was for absorbing Dark Magic, others that Harry didn’t recognise. In moments the room lost its sterile scent, replaced with the freshness of greenery, of growth, of clean soil. Harry had never been particularly interested in Herbology, but ever since discovering that working in the garden gave him respite from the Dursleys when he was a child, he had loved the smell of plants. If just the presence of these plants was enough to help him relax, he had high hopes they would live up to the rest of Neville’s promises.

Despite the size of the room, it was beginning to feel full. Hermione’s team quietly muttered to each other as they worked, and one of Neville’s plants let out a gentle trill as he carefully settled it at the foot of Draco’s bed. Harry was glad he didn’t need to take part in the conversation, but the burble of low noise distracted him from the worst of his worries.

He turned his head on the pillow, thankful the beds were so close he could see Draco clearly, even without his glasses on. The room had an enchanted window, casting late winter light across him, even through the bubble of blue spellwork around Draco’s body. He lay, looking at Draco’s glowing profile: his high brow, his straight nose, the soft curve of his throat. Harry had watched him, just like this, on that November night they spent together. Pre-dawn light had kissed the planes of Draco’s sleeping face with blues and pinks, and Harry had gorged himself on the sight. They had never made it to his bed in the end, so he had never actually experienced it, but for a moment Harry indulged himself in the fantasy that he could close his eyes now and wake up from this nightmare, find himself next to Draco, sharing the same pillow, the same breath.

There was no chance of that ever happening now though. If this worked, then stepping in and volunteering his blood, his magic, his very life force, was enough of a declaration that Draco would know exactly what Harry felt for him, the depth of his regard. Not to mention all of their friends and the entire Auror department, and fully half of St Mungo’s, had seen the way Harry had flown to pieces when Draco fell ill, the way he would have torn down mountains to find an answer, would risk his own life to cure him. 

Draco had known that it was no fling, no fun and flirty tumble in the sack—even if it had been unusually intense—but he hadn’t said anything. Just that they would, how did he put it? ‘_Clarify_’. Harry had thought he would have time. Had thought that they could have a proper talk, thought that Draco’s undercover operation would have been over by Christmas, that they would have gone back to sniping at each other over lunch, maybe they would have gone for a drink, maybe dinner after that. 

He hadn’t even worried when Draco’s assignment with the gang dragged on, had even wondered if absence might make the heart grow fonder, might give Draco time to reflect, to warm up to the idea of opening up. He had thought it was only a couple of months. He could wait. Hadn’t even taken the chance to hook Draco by the elbow and drag him into his Apparition on the night of the sting. Hadn’t mapped out his body with his fingers, his tongue, when he had the chance. He had left it too long, negligent in his confidence that he had all the time in the world to chase Draco and unfold what lay between them, petal by petal.

Draco might have changed in ways even Harry never expected, but he was still the challenging, oppositional, mercurial creature he always had been. Their working relationship—the unexpected but genuine friendship that had grown between them over the years—it wasn’t smooth and easy, not relaxed like his friendship with Ron and Hermione. It was spiky, demanding, Draco never went easy on him, and never went easy on himself. It was a relationship based on hard-earned mutual respect and always, _always_, keeping pace with each other. 

Harry knew, though. He knew that Draco was miles behind him when it came to this. This feeling that roared and sang and danced in Harry’s chest at the very thought of him. Roused into a wildly screaming colossus the moment Draco had fallen in front of him, and slipped to the edge of dying while Harry stood helpless.

He loved Draco. He _loved_ him. He had loved him for a while. It had started—he didn’t know when it started—but he knew Draco hadn’t caught up with him yet. He was definitely attracted to Harry, but he hadn’t said anything about _feelings_. And Draco wouldn’t play a game if he didn’t think he already had the advantage. So if he woke up from this—_when he woke up from this_—Harry would be lucky if Draco would settle enough from the disparity in emotions to tolerate continuing their friendship. 

Hermione touched his arm, distracting him from his increasingly maudlin thoughts. “I’m going to start now. Harry. I need you to drink this Blood-Replenishing Potion before we start; it will keep your vitals level while we conduct the transfusion.”

Harry leaned up on one elbow to obediently chug the foul-tasting concoction before lying back down, and then Hermione stood between his and Draco’s beds and began to cast. Harry had half expected to see tubes or something, like he remembered from Muggle medical television programmes the Dursleys let him watch, but Hermione must have figured out some way to make the transfusion magically. He was grateful; he’d seen enough blood in the last month since that horrible morning in the conference room. The faintest tugging sensation at the crook of his right arm was the only physical hint he had that Hermione had begun the process.

Hermione was continually casting beside him, a lyrical flow of incantations and fluid wand movement, but Harry couldn’t let himself get too distracted. Neville had come to sit on the other side of Harry’s bed, bringing his characteristic warmth and sense of calm as well as the earthy scent of plants, and for a moment Harry was overwhelmed with gratitude that he had such good friends. He patted Harry’s shoulder, his cue to begin his own, silent contribution to the magic in the room.

“Now, Harry,” he whispered, “remember; keep the incantation silent, in your head, try and imagine it like casting a spell into your blood like you would your wand, and send it to the transfusion point. Set your intentions—healing, spring green, life.”

Harry closed his eyes as Neville spoke, visualising filling his body with the same tingling awareness he felt whenever he cast a spell, calling up that brightness, that stirring sense of boundless potential that he associated with his magic. He imagined it as golden light, _Lumos_-bright, building in him with every beat of his heart, moving to that vulnerable spot on his right arm where the draw of Hermione’s transfusion pulled at him, travelling to Draco with every pulse; overflowing with healing, with life, and vigour, with warmth, and wellbeing, and love, love, _love_.

He didn’t know how much time had passed while he was so focused on his task, but eventually Hermione’s constant incantations trailed off. The silence in the room was heavy, expectant, and he opened his eyes cautiously, worried what he might see. Even with the Blood-Replenishing Potion he felt a bit dizzy, but Neville passed him his glasses and with them securely on, Harry sat up to watch Draco.

At first he couldn’t see any difference. Draco was still lying motionless, looking as fragile as he had since he first fainted. But now, even beneath the blue cast of the Stasis Charm, the faintest flush had appeared on his pale skin. His fingertips, his lips, the apples of his cheeks, the delicate curl of his ears, warmed with pink for the first time in weeks.

One of Hermione’s assistants had cast monitoring charms on him as soon as the transfusion was finished, and Harry fell back onto his pillow with relief at the smile that grew on her face as she read the results, a desperate, hysterical laugh breaking out of him. Neville clasped at his hand, squeezed, smiled with more understanding than Harry was comfortable with. But it was too late for all that, no point in hiding anything anymore. He was well and truly exposed, and he didn’t regret it. Not if he had helped heal Draco. He could suffer the longing alone if it meant Draco was okay.

* * *

Harry had been sent home from St Mungo’s on Monday, at lunchtime, with one more Blood-Replenishing Potion and a strict recommendation of rest from Hermione. She had sent a letter explaining as much to Head Auror Robards, so he actually had been forced to take the week off work, much to his annoyance.

It was strange, after the trauma and tumult of the last month and a half, to be floating around the house with nothing to do. No sword of Damocles hanging over his head, no work to do, nothing to focus on other than the creeping certainty that Draco would never talk to him again. He knew Draco had been sent home on Tuesday; Pansy had sent him an uncharacteristically kind letter letting him know, but he hadn’t heard from him yet. His chest ached.

His Floo crackled to life in the hearth, and he moved to kneel on the rug to see who it was, his heart in his mouth with excitement and nerves at the prospect of Draco finally reaching out. But it was Hermione’s face that appeared moments later, her hair wild and her eyes sharp, and Harry felt a shard of guilt at how disappointed he was to see her.

“Hermione! I wasn’t expecting you, do you want to come through?”

“No—Hi—no, I’m still at work actually. This is about Monday.”

Harry’s heart sank like a stone. “Is something wrong? Is Draco—”

“He’s fine,” Hermione interrupted, “he’s fine. I just had some … follow up questions for you. Neville and I are probably going to write a research paper on the procedure and I wanted to get the details from your end of the spell.”

“Alright, go for it.” Harry settled, cross-legged, but didn’t relax yet. Hermione wasn’t telling him something. He knew that look in her eyes. This conversation wasn’t just about research, though no doubt she and Neville _would_ be dazzling the Healing and Herbology communities with their new method. 

Hermione paused, and looked down for a moment, before peering at Harry. He braced himself for whatever she was going to ask that made even _her_ cautious to broach the subject.

“Have you been well since the transfusion, no unusual symptoms?”

“Yes, I’m fine. I just feel normal.”

“You didn’t experience any negative side effects during or after the procedure?”

“No.”

“Nothing at all?”

“No, Hermione, what’s this about?”

“I just need to check, that’s all.” She looked down again before meeting his eyes. Lie. “And during the procedure? Any discomfort, unusual sensations?”

“Er, I felt where you were drawing from my arm, it was weird but not sore.”

Hermione nodded as he spoke. “Okay, good, and can you tell me about the sensation of casting the spell as an intention within your blood rather than through a wand?”

“It was a bit like when I cast wandlessly.” Harry hesitated for a moment, closed his eyes to remember. “I sort of felt like I was filling up with it, and then it was like it siphoned out of me in a flow. Not like when you cast a spell and it leaves your wand in an instant, it was drawn out, slow but steady.”

“That’s brilliant Harry, that really helps. And what about how _you_ felt? Any, um, any emotional effects?”

Harry’s eyes shot open and he fixed her with a glare, “Right. What the fuck is this about, Hermione? _Emotional side-effects_? That’s hardly medically relevant is it?”

She huffed, frustrated with his lack of cooperation, but Harry didn’t relent. Something was going on here and she was keeping it from him.

“It’s just a follow-up, Harry. It was written in that consent document you bloody well _signed_ you know?”

“Yeah, and if you stopped at asking me if I felt a bit blood-cursed then I wouldn’t be worried. But asking about my bloody ‘feelings’ is hardly standard, is it?”

“Okay,” Hermione shook her head. “Fine. I’m not disclosing details but it appears that something we did during the procedure has created a side-effect for Draco—” She frowned as Harry tried to speak. “—no, I’m not telling you what it is. But it’s not dangerous so you can bloody well sit back down.”

“You think I did something?”

“No—well—I think something might have occurred but I’m not _sure_, which is why I’m asking you what you were feeling during the transfusion.”

“Not reassuring me here, Hermione,” Harry sighed. “Alright, so, I was feeling worried? And I was focusing on the incantation, and like Neville said—I was thinking about health and life and I was feeling—” he trailed off.

Hermione just nodded encouragingly, and Harry knew, he knew he would tell her. Because what if he’d done something wrong with the spell and this was the only clue? Hermione wouldn’t lie, not about this, but what if these supposedly safe side-effects changed, made Draco sick again?

“I was—um—I was thinking about Draco, about how I—” Harry scrubbed his hand through his hair, scratched at the back of his neck, unaccountably nervous despite the fact Hermione was his best friend and probably already _knew_ anyway “—I was thinking, well, I was _feeling_, um, love.”

“Love,” Hermione confirmed, continued when Harry nodded silently, “Romantic love? Love in general, or?”

“Yes. For him. Specifically,” Harry grit out.

“Okay, okay. That. That’s what I needed to know, Harry, thank you.”

Harry nodded, his jaw tight. “If you need to tell him, to help him. I—you can tell him.”

“It’s going to be okay, Harry, please don’t sit worrying all day. Owl Ron, he’ll head over after work if you want.”

“I’m fine, think I’m going to have a quiet night in. Don’t worry about me.”

“If you’re sure. I’ve got to go, I’ve got—I’ve got a patient coming in, but I’ll see you on Sunday at the Burrow?”

“Of course. Bye, Hermione.”

The fire fizzled from sparkling green to its normal orange glow, and Harry sat on the floor, holding his head in his hands.

* * *

Harry dreamt of red flowers, their petals endlessly unfurling, pulsing golden light, and a heartbeat as loud as thunder, pounding, pounding. He must have fallen asleep on the sofa. The sound in his ears continued, though, once he opened his eyes, and for a moment he was so disconcerted that he closed them again.

But it wasn’t thunder. It was someone banging on his front door. With vigour. As his mind swam up from the depths of sleep, he realised that someone was shouting too.

“—who even _does_ that for Merlin’s sake! Open the door, you utter prick!”

It was Draco. Of course it was. Harry thought he might have had more time. Since speaking to Hermione he had been dreading the moment he would have to have a conversation with Draco about whatever it was he had done when he donated his blood. Dreading it and yet impatiently counting down the moments until he saw him again, even if it was probably going to hurt. By the sounds of Draco’s irate tone of voice, he was right about that, at least. Maybe if he just lay here a little longer, he could put off the inevitable.

“Potter. Open the door right this bloody minute or I’ll cast a _Bombarda_!”

More pounding beats. Surely his fists must be starting to hurt. Though by the sound of it, he might have moved to kicking the door now, Harry mused to himself. More banging. Then quiet. Harry sat up, turned his head to listen, intent. Had he left, given up, already?

“Harry…” No more ire, Draco’s voice was almost plaintive, and Harry was half out of his seat before he had thought to move. “Harry, I need you to explain what the bloody hell is going on! What’s this about a bloody mother’s love and old bloody magic and _my bloody Mark_?”

Harry ran from his living room to throw open his front door, Hermione’s questions suddenly making awful sense. Draco’s fist was still raised, about to knock again, and he looked a mess. He must have been running his fingers through his hair, a nervous habit he hadn’t shaken since the war, and his eyes were so bright, he might have been on the verge of tears. Harry’s heart clenched, his throat tightened with regret that he was the one who had caused Draco this much distress, but still confusion reigned.

“What do you mean, what’s happened to your Mark?”

Draco scoffed, dredging up his customary disdain for questions he deemed stupid, even in his sorry-looking state, and Harry could have kissed him for it. 

“My Mark is bloody well _gone_, you prick. And Hermione says it’s something to do with old magic—that your mother had done ‘something similar’—and that somehow you _healed_ it.” Draco’s voice was low, almost a hiss, and Harry couldn’t tell if it was distress or rage that tinged his tone.

He stood, helpless to watch as Draco jerked up the sleeve of his jumper, every line of his body fraught with tension as he uncovered his left forearm.

“Look.”

Harry covered his mouth, stunned at the unblemished skin revealed pale as snow in the dusky light of the late afternoon. Like the toppling of dominoes, he joined the dots up, realised what he had done—Hermione’s questions, Draco’s ranting interrogation, all that love he had felt, all that love he had broadcast in every pulse of blood and magic he had gifted to Draco, it had gone too far—he hadn’t just healed Draco from the blood curse, he had healed him of _all_ the Dark Magic lingering in his body.

“The Dark Mark _can’t be healed_, everyone knows that, Harry. But you did. You healed it. You healed me. Hermione told me—”

Harry couldn’t bear to hear it, couldn’t stomach a second-hand revelation of his own feelings, couldn’t countenance Draco’s reaction, so he interrupted him, his voice cracking, “I’m sorry, I—I—”

Draco stepped forward and grabbed him, his arm still bared, and cradled his face in both hands like Harry was something precious, something treasured. He looked at him searchingly, wonder in those smoky eyes, beautiful even red-rimmed and desperate.

“You fucking idiot—no one’s ever—” He leaned in and kissed Harry, hard and desperate. “You’re the only person who could—” He kissed him again, again, pushed into the house and pressed him up against the hallway wall, an echo of that night last November, a taste of everything Harry thought he’d never have again. “You love me,” Draco said, weighty, certain, all confusion gone.

“I love you,” Harry confirmed. There was a freedom in it, finally, a letting go. His chest felt hollow, his heart carved out and served up to Draco, right there on his doorstep.

“You love me.” Draco said, and this time it was almost a question, there was a tremble in his voice, a quiver of doubt.

“I do.”

Draco’s hands were still on his face, and he could feel the faintest tremble in them, so he raised his own hands, gripped gently at Draco’s wrists, kept him close, kept him steady. He couldn’t look away from that face, sharp angles, the glimmer of fair stubble on a jawline that could cut glass, surprisingly long lashes glinting in the winter sunlight shining past them from his still-open front door. 

“I do,” he repeated, his voice soft, placating. “I love you, and it’s okay if you—”

Draco cut him off with his lips, again, and Harry had never been happier to let him win, to yield the floor and let himself be silenced. 

They broke apart, lips still touching as they breathed against each other, and every inhalation carried the sweet bitterness of the tea Draco must have drunk before coming to him. Draco nudged one more chaste kiss to his mouth before he drew back, watchful again, searching.

“Do you want me to stay?” he asked, serious, a world of meaning in every syllable.

“Yes,” Harry said. _Forever_ he thought.

With a casual lean to his side, Draco reached out and tipped the door shut, secluding them in the privacy of the hallway, no prying eyes, nothing but the two of them and the quiet of Harry’s home around them. It seemed that Harry’s confirmation had been all Draco had needed, to slide effortlessly back into his confidence, into the wry curl of a smirk and the glitter of challenge, to shed the confusion and distress of moments ago like dead skin. 

Harry had worried about Draco feeling like he had outpaced him, had thought he wouldn’t take part in the game knowing Harry was already so far ahead of him. In love, already, when their first step over the threshold of friendship had been so arrested. Why had he never bargained on Draco fixing his eyes on the distance between them and choosing to _race_ to catch up with him? Why had he ever thought Draco would willingly allow him to keep the lead?

He reached down, took Draco’s hand, their fingers fitting together like a key in a lock, opening something Harry thought he had shut for good. He nodded his head over Draco’s shoulder, watched the grin on his face blossom when he turned to see the stairs.

“Finally get to see the bedroom, do I?” His tone was teasing, but there was a tension around his eyes, a question.

Harry gripped at his hand, a quick squeeze, reassurance. They had almost missed this, almost lost their chance, had come so tantalisingly close but been forcibly stopped short. “Yeah,” he murmured, “reckon we’ve earned more than just the sofa.”

That tension in Draco’s face melted, replaced with a new kind of sharp intensity that Harry wasn’t familiar with, not yet. “I’ll have you know I have _very_ fond memories of your sofa, I might never let you get rid of it.”

“Never?” Harry tugged at Draco’s hand, led him up the stairs to the landing leading to his bedroom.

“Mmmm,” Draco hummed as he kept pace, side-by-side with him for every step.

He stroked his free hand down Harry’s arm, loosely gripping his wrist, a bracelet of warmth above their clasped hands, holding him even as Harry led the way, the gentlest of restraint. Harry’s skin tingled in the wake of his touch, the hairs on the back of his neck stood up at the carefully proprietary way Draco touched him. Just like the last time. 

And then they were in his bedroom, his still-closed curtains transforming the weak sunlight shining through into a rosy glow, his unmade bed as welcoming as it had ever looked, and Draco’s shoulder against his, warm, smelling of the cool breeze from outside and that ever-present rich, spicy cologne. 

In the moment it took for Harry to hesitate, wondering if it would be ridiculous to just bury his face under Draco’s jaw and breathe him in for a while, Draco clearly decided to stop wasting time. He tugged Harry to the side of the bed and then loosened their hands, pushing at Harry’s chest with the lightest of shoves until he fell to the mattress.

Standing above him, Draco looked so tall, so broad, and Harry was suddenly, desperately happy that he was here—settling his weight where he stood, and smirking, his ears still pink from the cold, a flush of arousal sneaking up his neck. So happy that even declarations of love on doorsteps weren’t enough to drive him away from Harry. That happiness settled in his chest, mingling with the heady excitement of having Draco here, in his room, with the heat that had grown with every kiss, every touch they had shared so far.

“Last time—you liked it, didn’t you?” Draco’s voice was low as he nudged Harry’s sprawled thighs farther apart with his knee, eyes flashing at the ease of it. “You liked … giving yourself over.” 

Harry’s stomach swooped, like he’d dived a hundred feet on his broom, like freefall, and he felt his cheeks heat. He could pretend. He could try to look confused, like he didn’t remember, like that feeling of letting Draco take the lead hadn’t felt like flying. But he didn’t want to lie. Not about this. Not to him. So he nodded, not sure if it was what Draco wanted, but knowing he couldn’t hide the truth.

Draco smirk softened into an almost-smile, a look of pleased, patient hunger on his face. “And would you like that again?”

Harry swallowed, shifted where he lay, bit his lip, and nodded again. “Yes.”

It felt important, somehow, that he said it out loud. _Yes_. It felt like an incantation, like a word with power behind it, like a spell he was casting that revealed something inside of him he never knew existed. By the sharp inhalation he heard Draco take, he wasn’t the only one who felt the weight of it as it hung, shivering in the air between them. Yet another declaration.

Draco gestured his right hand with a murmured incantation and in an instant, Harry was naked. Stripped completely bare, his clothes vanished in an uncharacteristic display of wandless magic. He shivered, not from the cold—his room was warm—but from the sudden disparity. Here he was, every soft and vulnerable part of him on show; his erection lying against his belly, his body exposed as much as every other part of him now, and Draco still stood over him, fully dressed. Sharply tailored wool trousers, deep blue jumper in the finest of knits; just his face, his hands, that pristine unmarked forearm on show.

He should have felt embarrassed, Harry thought to himself, should have been impatient to level to playing field. Should have cast his own spell, dragged Draco down with him, stayed on top. But he didn’t. Somehow, with the taste of Draco still on his lips, Harry didn’t mind capitulating like this. Liked it, even. Liked waiting while Draco’s eyes roved over him, like he was seeing something once forgotten; like he was committing to memory something important, something integral. On the second sweep of those eyes, something changed, a charge to the air, a focused intensity that only sharpened as Harry waited. 

Draco stepped forward, his knees against the mattress between Harry’s spread legs. He trailed his fingertips in a tantalising drag from the delicate skin of Harry’s hip bone, down his thigh, to the scar on his knee he got when he was on his first Auror mission, a curving crescent of white tissue that Draco traced with careful accuracy. He shivered, goosebumps racing up his arms at the tingling wave of sensation that washed over him in response. Just the tips of his fingers and Draco almost had him trembling. 

“Up you go,” Draco instructed, nodding at the head of Harry’s bed, the nest of pillows he indulged himself in. “I want you all laid out for me, get comfortable.”

Harry scrambled to oblige, crawling up his bed and turning to fall onto his pillows, his legs parted, his arms by his sides. He flicked his hair out of his face, desperate to see what Draco would do next.

He must have toed off his shoes, because he knelt up on the bed and prowled towards Harry, settling over him on all fours, still looking, still watching, still not touching. Harry had never been so turned on without someone’s hands on him in his life.

Finally, _finally_ Draco leaned down and closed the gap between them, dropping a kiss to Harry’s that clung, their lips moist with hot breath. He settled properly, straddling Harry, still fully dressed. The heat of Draco’s erection nudging against his balls, a layer of fine wool between them, was enough to make him gasp. And then Draco was licking into his mouth, chasing that shock of arousal, tangling his fingers in Harry’s hair and tilting his head to find the best angle to plunder his lips. It felt like being taken.

Draco drew back, barely, their lips still touching, catching against each other as he spoke. “Strip me.”

Harry reached for the hem of his jumper, halting at the minute shake of his head, confused for the space of a heartbeat before he realised what Draco wanted. Magic. He slipped his hand underneath the wool anyway though, eager to touch that warm skin. He didn’t bother with the spoken incantation, or any waving of his hands, Draco already knew what he could do so there was no point in dissimulation. It was simple; one moment Draco was fully dressed, the next he wasn’t wearing a stitch of clothing, Harry’s magic tugging at the material of reality to fit it to his will.

Harry’s mind reeled. He had never quite seen all of Draco. Stolen glimpses in the shower, his bare cock exposed in the heat of their first night together, his chest and legs and arms while they lingered in their underwear together. His imagined version of Draco was a multiplicity of pieces, snapshots, a collage put together to create a whole. But now he had all of him, every inch of pale skin, every scar, every patch of golden body hair; a feast. He groaned, rolled his hips, groaned again at the feel of him, finally pressed against him without a barrier.

Draco pressed down against that roll, his pupils blown with arousal, black edging out grey. He nipped Harry’s bottom lip, the sting of pain blossoming into pleasure at the sucking kiss that followed. His voice was a whisper when he broke the quiet of the room, just their breaths and the cotton rustle of Harry’s bedding around them.

“Hermione told me what you did.”

Even the reminder of that desperate attempt, the dark prospect of Draco lying so still and so pale on the hospital bed, wasn’t enough to shake Harry’s hunger for more kisses, more skin, more touches. He kissed the corner of Draco’s mouth, the edge of his jaw, the tip of his pointy chin, waited for Draco to speak his piece.

“But I already knew,” Draco continued, his whisper strangled as Harry indulged in a sucking kiss at his pulsepoint. “I remember.”

That broke Harry out of his lust-fuelled daze. He pulled away from Draco’s throat and dropped his head back onto his pillow, watching to see where Draco intended to take this.

“You remember? Everything?”

Draco nodded, eyes bright.

“Everything. From the moment the transfusion began, I think.” He brought their faces together, brushed his lips against Harry’s. “your blood was _inside_ me, your _magic_—_it was like you were inside me_—” A lush, open mouthed kiss, his tongue slick, hot, “—fuck—I need you inside me Harry, _I need you inside me_.”

The rush of pure, unadulterated _want_ that roared through Harry was overwhelming. If he had been standing, he would have staggered, dropped to one knee to bear it. He hadn’t expected it, but the knowledge settled into his bones. He felt powerful, like he could obliterate a mountain, spin spiderwebs into diamonds, plant himself firm and roll the world up like a carpet to lay at Draco’s feet. His magic unfurled like a waking dragon and all he wanted to do was whatever Draco asked of him.

“Yes—fuck—yes, let me—” Harry broke off, abandoning words to kiss, to cast, intimate and slick.

He reached behind Draco’s back, felt the silky wetness on his cheeks, slid his finger down. Pressed against the resistance there, breathed in the panting exhalation Draco let out. The hand in his hair clenched as his finger slipped inside, an inch inside the heat of him. Then Draco stretched his own arm back, and Harry’s finger was joined by two more, slimmer, longer. Draco wasn’t as careful, wasn’t as hesitant, he pushed two digits into himself, fast, and Harry crooked his finger to make room, to open him up for his self-exploration.

“I want you—” Draco’s fingers slid against his, still inside him, unbearably intimate, his words a warm rumble against his mouth. “—I want you to fuck me, Harry.”

And then he was sitting up, the changed angle forced Harry’s finger out, which he mourned for one ridiculous moment until Draco adjusted himself, reached between them to grip Harry’s aching cock in one hand, and lowered himself down. He went slow. That first press inward seemed to last forever until finally Harry was inside him. Harry gripped at his hips, fierce, holding himself still, the force of his self-restraint enough to make him tremble. He watched Draco’s face transform as he slid down his length, inch by inch, watched the primal satisfaction that washed over him as he finally settled, his perfect arse cradled in Harry’s iliac crest, his hole tight and clenching around him.

It felt seismic. Like the world should be shaking around them, trembling like Harry. Draco had asked for this, and Harry had given it to him, and every piece of him, every cell, every particle of magic that made him up was straining towards that point of contact. Eager. Hungry for more.

With a shuddering sigh, Draco began to move. The muscles in his thighs and hips shifted, straining as he raised himself up, dropped, ground down dirty and slow. Harry threw his head back, a ragged moan drawn from somewhere deep inside him, his toes curling with the heat of it. Then Draco was pulling his hands from their grip on slim hips, and pushing them up above his head. He laced their fingers together, palm to palm, leant forward and pressed them into the bed, holding Harry down. 

Stretched out over Harry like that, still rolling his hips, Draco looked like a predator. Lean and strong and effortless, every movement decisive, every moan a demand, and Harry was helpless in the face of it; willingly, gladly baring his throat, baring _himself_ to Draco as he took his pleasure. He dug his heels into the bed and thrust in time with him, meeting every downward slide with a sharp jerk of his hips.

Harry tilted his head up, a silent request, and Draco indulged him. Still moving, he ducked his head down and kissed him, silver hair falling around their faces like a veil. 

“Fuck, Draco, I’m—” Harry gasped, gripped at Draco’s hands, trying to anchor himself, keep hold of this moment and drag it into eternity. “—I’m close.”

Draco just kissed him harder, bounced faster, the slick tightness of his hole enough to make Harry’s eyes roll back. Pleasure coiled like a snake in his belly, waiting, ready, but he railed against it. Didn’t want this to be over. His belly clenched, his balls high and tight, and still he moved against Draco.

“So good,” Draco whispered. “You’re so good, I’m going to show you.”

Harry was blindsided all over again by the unexpected praise. There was no way Draco didn’t know what he was doing, no way he didn’t see the flush Harry could feel heating his cheeks, the way his hips jerked in response. It was almost enough to tip him over the edge; it might have been enough, if Draco hadn’t chosen that moment to rise up onto his knees, pulling away from Harry in a sudden slide, until they were separate again. Harry’s cock fell from the tight clasp of him with a wet slap against his heaving stomach. 

“Wha—” Harry’s mouth was dry from panting, he licked his lips, swallowed hard at the abrupt lack of contact. “What?”

Without missing a beat, Draco kissed him again, again, nipped gently at the blushing apple of his cheek, harder at the hinge of his jaw. He loosened his hold on his hands, with one last meaningful push into the bed—_stay put_—and then his mouth was dragging, hot and clever, down Harry’s throat. There would be bruises, tomorrow. Harry made a silent vow to himself, to keep them, to wear them in until the soft fade of them blended into the shadows of his skin.

“I already told you,” Draco whispered, dark and quiet into the hollow of his clavicle. “I’m going to show you just how good you are.” A lick to the thin skin of his collarbone. “How good you can be.” A sucking bite to his pectoral. “How good you can _feel_. Yes?”

“Yes, yes, oh my go—” Harry broke off with a whine as Draco swirled his tongue around one sensitive nipple, pinched the other, kissed his way down his belly. 

And then he gripped firmly behind Harry’s knees, pushing forward until he was bent double, spread open, and he could _feel_ Draco’s eyes on him. With a quiet whisper, and a tremble of magic on the air, Draco cast. Delicate, gentle, but thorough, the most intimate of cleansing charms.

Harry looked down his own body, between his legs, where Draco hovered, hawk-like and hungry. He could feel his breath, close and warm, against the tender skin behind his balls. And then he felt it lower, a deliberate stream of cool air blown across his clenching hole. He swore, suddenly, shockingly aware of what Draco intended to do. He gripped his pillow, hands still on either side of his head, as he braced himself for what came next. 

“Have you ever?” Draco’s eyes glinted mercury-bright as he raised his eyes to meet Harry’s.

“No—I—not this.” 

Draco grinned, sharp and delighted, and his answering hum of approval was muffled as he buried his face between Harry’s cheeks, licking against him, _into_ him. Filthy-hot sparks of sensation rocketed up his spine, into his belly, and he nearly jackknifed off the bed with the shock of it. Strong hands held him down, broad shoulders kept his legs from drawing together, stopped him from protecting himself from the onslaught. Pleasure so acute it almost hurt. 

His shoulders had barely settled back onto his bed and there were fingers at his mouth. Pale, elegant, forcing past his kiss-swollen lips and pressing down on his tongue. The sense-memory of the weight of Draco’s cock there had Harry’s eyes rolling back, even as he laved at his fingers, curled his tongue and sucked. Then Draco drew back his hand, shiny wet, and his tongue gave way to the insistent press of slender fingers, the friction of knuckles pushing past Harry’s tender, spit-slick rim. A bite, slow and deep and hard into the meat of his inner thigh, the pain sparkling bright and casting the first press against his prostate into stunning, startling contrast. 

Harry risked looking down, nearly undone by the sight he found; Draco’s silver eyes slitted in cat-like pleasure as he watched his own slick fingers toying with Harry’s hole. This wasn’t preparation, this was the disassembly of his functioning mind, this was Draco reading every twitch of his body, matching every impulse, meeting every unformed thought with touches like brands. Harry closed his eyes, as if that could save him from the delirium overwhelming him with every mean press of Draco’s fingertips to his prostate. 

Then, with one last curling twist Draco pulled his fingers out, trailed them up, stroked across Harry’s balls gently before delivering a sharp slap. Tight. Controlled. Harry’s whole body jerked at the shock of it, the stinging pain. But his cock throbbed, precome wet on the trail of dark hair leading from his belly-button to his groin. Draco’s smile was dark, a glint of white teeth and a hint of glee at the confused yelp Harry hadn’t managed to stifle.

He rose to his knees, wrapped Harry’s legs around his waist, and leaned down to cover him with his body. Harry shuddered at the delicious weight of him, the friction of their erections rubbing together, just precome and sweat to slick the way, the frisson of pain still tingling down his spine.

“Told you I’d show you how good it can feel.” He bit down on Harry’s earlobe. “Even when it hurts, I can make it good.”

Harry nodded, frantic, rolled his hips up against Draco, desperately seeking more contact, his hands still fisted in his pillow, obedience a treacle-sweet balm.

Draco wrapped his arms around him, enclosing, embracing; one up between Harry’s shoulders, gripping the back of his neck; one sliding down, canting his hips to ease the slide of his cock up and down Harry’s cleft. Another quiet murmur, wandlessly conjured slick cool on the tender heat of his stretched hole. And then a clench of those strong arms around him, a broad palm arching the small of his back, bringing their lower bodies into crushing, intimate contact; and the blunt head of Draco’s cock pressed in—inexorable, inevitable, _necessary_.

A slow, steady, aching slide and then he was fully seated inside of Harry. _Inside of him_. Harry gasped, all the air punched out of him, displaced by the heat and hardness and the throbbing realness of Draco’s cock within him. He clenched, reflexive, testing, and had to close his eyes against the feel of him, the unbearable fullness. 

“I felt you, like this.” The rumble of Draco’s voice was deep, Harry could feel it where their chests pressed together. “In every cell.”

He drew his hips back, torturously slow, made Harry feel every inch of it, until the head of his cock was just kissing the twitching whorls of Harry’s hole. Then back in, just as slow, pressing him open anew, watching Harry’s face for every reaction, every panting breath and tremble of his lip.

“I can _still_ feel you, Harry, I’ve been walking about and it’s like you’re with me. Every time I cast, every time I close my eyes.” 

His eyes were intense, fierce, and if Harry had been anyone else he might have been afraid of it. Lying here, his heart served up, his body pliant, and ready, and giving; maybe he should have been scared. He was exposed to Draco’s devouring gaze, flayed open and revealed to him. And Harry had never felt so safe in his life. Matched so perfectly. 

Draco didn’t look away, he just watched, fixed his eyes on Harry’s and started fucking him properly. Grinding, pounding, rutting, frantic and unhurried all at once—it felt like he might keep going forever and _fuck_ Harry would just lie back and take it. 

A bead of sweat dropped from Draco’s temple, tracing the arch of his cheekbone, the line of his jaw, paused, trembling on his chin before dropping onto Harry’s bitten lips, stinging salt he licked off and savoured. Draco dropped his head down, traced the curve of the sensitive skin of Harry’s underarm, bit at the softness there, inhaled deeply. 

“Arms around my neck now, Harry, don’t touch yourself,” Draco growled. “Just let it happen.”

And then Harry was clinging onto him, arms and legs wrapped around his heaving frame, holding on to the very storm wrecking him against the shore of his own shattering arousal. They were both panting now, slick, sweaty. The cotton sheets caught on Harry’s shoulders as he was nudged up the bed with every savage jerk of Draco’s hips. 

Draco’s grip on the back of his neck tightened, bruising, as he ploughed deeper into Harry’s body, his hips a metronome of rhythmic thrusts. Every one a sliding drag against nerves that sparked and screamed inside Harry. His toes curled, the tension in his thighs long turned to uncontrolled trembling, his own hands clutched at Draco, short nails scratching. 

It was almost frightening; Harry was scared of the intensity of his rising orgasm, the enormity of it. He had never felt anything like this. He almost wanted to run away, the sure knowledge that the impending rush of sensation might obliterate him. But he was pinned like a butterfly by Draco’s arms, his body, his pounding hips, his broad shoulders, his eyes as potent and powerful as any magical compulsion.

And then it arrived, and how could he have ever thought he could outrun it. His eyes flew open with shock, every muscle in his body locking tight, twitching, his hole spasmed wildly around the still moving heat of Draco inside him. He held so tightly to Draco that he might have hurt him, the ragged scream that burst out of him tailed off into a wanton mewl as Draco kept fucking him. 

Come covered his belly, trickled into his pubic hair and slid between them, but still Draco kept going. Chasing his own end, animalistic in his single-minded focus. Still he watched Harry, insatiable hunger in those eyes, a grimace of fierce determination as he rutted, deep and fast and unceasing—until suddenly, suddenly he stilled—and Harry could _feel_ him pulsing inside of him, could feel the tremors that racked his body as he came and came and came. 

Long moments later, his grip on Harry’s neck gentled, his thumb stroked the side of his throat. And he moved again, the slow slide of his still-hard cock in Harry’s come-slick hole, the sound of it obscene, delicious as he lazily thrust. He dipped down to kiss Harry, a languorous tangle of lips and tongue and teeth.

“You’re an idiot, Harry, if you ever thought you’d stay ahead of me for long. I will _always_ end up ahead of you.” He gentled his mouth, licked delicately at Harry’s lips. “And I will always wait for you to catch up with me.”

* * *

Twelve years. Antagonism to hate to guilt and repentance, understanding to friendship to this. A pearl born of the friction between them, endlessly challenging, under each other's skin. A treasure discovered where pain once was.

And Draco, lying flushed and sweaty on the bed beside him. So close they shared a pillow, shared breath as they came down from the tortuous highs they had climbed together. Their legs were tangled, Draco’s hand still warm against Harry’s throat. Harry watched him, habit of a lifetime, helpless, open, fiercely in love.

**Author's Note:**

> There is no formal discussion of bdsm/kink between Harry and Draco, no safe word is set. Although no major kinks are explored, there is a strong dynamic of D/s present and consent is sought on both occasions they have sex (not including the voyeurism, though it is strongly implied Draco is aware and enjoys Harry watching him). Their conduct falls under Safe, Sane and Consensual from my perspective as author.
> 
> Blood content: Draco bleeds from his nose & mouth due to a curse, not wounds, there are relatively brief descriptions of the actual blood, and references to it throughout the scenes where they are trying to cure him. No blood is involved in any of their sex scenes.
> 
> * * *
> 
> Thank you so much for reading! You can show your appreciation for the author in a comment below. ♥
> 
> This story is part of HD Erised, an on-going anonymous fest. The author will be revealed January 10th.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[podfic] That which hurts (and is desired)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24104035) by [laughingd0g](https://archiveofourown.org/users/laughingd0g/pseuds/laughingd0g)


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